Klaus sat in a cramped room inside a tall building where, as he had already concluded, people lived stacked on top of one another like birds in cages.
This was nothing like his fortress.
The walls pressed in too close. The ceiling felt suffocatingly low. The doors looked so flimsy he was certain a single solid kick would splinter them apart.
The bathing chamber in his palace had been larger than this entire apartment.
How could anyone live like this?
"Tea? Coffee?" the thin, fair-haired boy asked.
"Coffee? What is that?"
"A drink. Keeps you awake."
"Then I will try it."
Egor moved around the kitchen, preparing drinks and setting out unfamiliar packaged sweets. Klaus picked one up, unwrapped it, and bit down.
Sweet.
Obscenely so.
He forced himself to swallow, his expression tightening with open disgust.
"Lady Pauoka," he said, making an effort—barely—to remain polite, "do you have anything less… cloying? I am hungry."
He had already decided to be careful with this woman.
He did not understand her.
And that alone made her dangerous.
"Go and look in the refrigerator," she muttered. "I am an old woman, not your servant."
Seeing his confusion, she let out a tired sigh.
"The white box. Open it."
Klaus did so—not out of obedience, but curiosity.
At home, no one gave him orders.
No one.
When he opened it, a wave of cold air struck his face.
He blinked.
"Interesting. Is this wind magic? Or ice?"
"It's called a refrigerator," Pauoka replied calmly. "Human ingenuity. Try to keep up."
He examined jars, pickled vegetables, cheese, cured meat.
At least this resembled real food.
He took what he wanted and set it on the table without asking.
Egor hurried after him, grabbing a knife.
"I'll cut it—just wait—"
Klaus ignored him and took a sip of the black liquid.
Bitter.
Sharp.
Strange.
…Acceptable.
"Does your grandson already serve someone?" Klaus asked, as if discussing a trivial arrangement. "If I am forced to remain here, I may take him into my service."
Egor nearly choked.
"Excuse me?!"
Pauoka allowed herself a faint smile.
"The rules here are different," she said. "But in a way, that's not entirely a bad idea. You do need someone to guide you."
"Grandma," Egor cut in, sharper now, "maybe you could explain what's actually going on? I hear the words, but none of this makes any sense. What country is he from? Why were soldiers trying to kill him? And what exactly does he mean by 'crown prince'?"
Pauoka fell silent.
"I should have told you long ago," she said at last. "I have lived peacefully in this world for fifty years. I never expected the past to find me again… least of all in the form of Isorobia's crown prince."
Klaus stopped eating.
"Yes," he said coldly. "I would also like to hear your story."
"I am from Isorobia," Pauoka began. "Its capital is Anatodom. It exists in another world. Nothing like this one."
She paused briefly.
"In my youth, that world was governed by a single law—the Law of Strength. The strong take what they want. The weak either submit… or pay for protection."
"That law has endured for over a thousand years," Klaus cut in sharply. "It is order—not chaos. It ensures that no outsider dares lay a hand on our land."
"Order?" she repeated quietly. "Let me explain what that 'order' truly looks like."
She turned to Egor.
"Your home can be taken from you. If you are weak, you can be enslaved—or killed where you stand. Ordinary people survive in three ways: they earn enough to hire protection, they become useful through skill… or they are born beautiful."
Egor stared at her.
"That sounds insane."
"It is normal there," she replied. "Just as your trains and machines are normal here. Progress is discouraged. Sometimes punished. Why invent something new if your master sees no profit in it?"
"There are those who wish for change," Klaus said sharply.
"And what becomes of them?" she asked. "Do they succeed… or are they killed before they take a single step?"
Klaus said nothing.
Something shifted.
Quietly.
Uncomfortably.
He had always believed their system was strength.
Now—
in a cramped kitchen, in a world without blades, without servants, without fear—
it felt… different.
He was not at home.
Here—
he was no one.
"There is more," Pauoka continued. "Something that may sound even more absurd."
She looked at Egor.
"Magic."
Egor let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
"Magic? Seriously?"
"It exists," she said firmly. "It is the true power of Isorobia. Even the weakest mage holds status."
She turned to Klaus.
"What element do you command?"
"Lightning," he replied. "And a secondary ability—assimilation of knowledge. I can take what a person knows. Not thoughts. Not secrets. Only knowledge."
"I can accept barbaric laws," Egor muttered. "But magic—"
"How dare you doubt me?" Klaus snapped.
Before Pauoka could stop him, he rose and stepped toward Egor.
Too close.
Far too close.
Egor froze.
Klaus raised his hand and pressed a finger between his brows.
For a moment—
nothing.
Then Klaus staggered.
His expression twisted.
And he collapsed.
"Klaus!" Egor dropped beside him. "What the hell—what's wrong with him?!"
"He drained himself," Pauoka said calmly after a brief glance. "There is no magic in this world. He used the last of what he had."
"What do you mean—no magic?!"
"He tried to draw power where there is none. There is nothing here to replenish it."
Egor stared at Klaus's motionless body.
Magic.
No magic.
This was insane.
And yet—
his grandmother had never lied.
Not once.
When Klaus opened his eyes again, something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
His body felt hollow.
Empty.
As if something vital had been torn out of him.
"How long…" he rasped.
"Long enough," Pauoka said, "for you to understand that I was right."
"There is no magic here?" His voice sharpened.
"None."
He pushed himself up too quickly.
"That's impossible. Magic flows like blood—it has always been there. I did not even know it could run dry—"
His voice broke into anger.
"Damn it, I didn't even know that was possible!"
"Blood can be drained," she said quietly. "So can power."
He closed his eyes.
Nothing.
No current.
No pressure.
No storm beneath his skin.
His sword was gone.
Now his magic.
What was left?
Who was he without them?
"You adapt," Pauoka said.
He let out a short, bitter breath.
"You sound exactly like my teacher."
"And who was that?"
"Baysal Fazli."
Her expression changed.
"Fazli… from Sever's line."
"You knew them?"
"Sever taught me."
Klaus blinked.
"You were educated?"
"Do you believe knowledge belongs only to nobles?" she asked dryly. "Some slaves resist quietly. Some teach. Some prepare."
"You admit that to me?" he said coldly. "What if I report them when I return?"
"If you return," she corrected calmly. "And I do not believe you will."
"You are very certain of that."
"I believe in you."
That unsettled him more than anything else she had said.
"What do I have to do?" he asked at last.
The words tasted like ash.
"First, you need documents. Without them, you do not exist here."
"I have already learned your customs. Your laws. Your machines," he said. "Your inventions might as well be magic."
"But they are not."
He exhaled sharply.
"You will work," she added.
He stared at her.
Then laughed once—short, sharp.
"You have lost your mind."
"You have already fallen further than you think," she replied evenly. "And you will fall further—if you intend to return."
He said nothing.
Rage burned in his chest.
But she was right.
She was his only path home.
That evening, he sat in front of Egor's laptop.
"This machine is useless," Klaus snapped. "I ask how to restore magic, and it feeds me nonsense."
"It gives you real information," Egor said, already tired. "Not fantasies."
"Magic is not a fantasy."
"Here it is."
"Then you are searching incorrectly."
"I don't even believe in it!"
Klaus leaned back, studying him.
"Bring me black coffee," he said coldly. "And prepare clean clothes. I will bathe."
"I am not your servant!" Egor snapped.
The bathroom door slammed shut.
Silence followed.
The next morning began with shouting.
"Why is breakfast not prepared?" Klaus demanded.
"This isn't a palace!" Egor shot back. "We cook for ourselves!"
"I require proper meat."
"Then go buy it and cook it yourself!"
"How dare you speak to me like that—"
Pauoka watched them with quiet amusement.
"They will sort it out," she murmured.
Klaus took the plate of eggs with visible displeasure.
"This will suffice," he said stiffly. "Next time, have it ready before I wake."
Egor clenched his fists.
"You are not a king here."
"And you are not a slave," Pauoka added calmly. "Teach him how people live in this world."
Klaus grimaced.
"I understand your laws," he said. "That does not mean I accept them."
"Start by understanding I am not your servant," Egor shot back.
"What difference does it make what I call you?" Klaus replied coldly. "You will assist me regardless."
Egor turned away.
Arguing was pointless.
He would endure the arrogant bastard.
For his grandmother.
Only for her.
He did not have to like Klaus.
He did not have to understand him.
He only had to survive him.